looked forward to the event which had now come; but she had
thought that it would be much more distant,--and she had tried to
make herself believe that when it did come it would be very different
from this letter which she now possessed. "He will tell me that he
has altered his mind. He ought to do so. It is not proper that he
should still think of me when we are in such disgrace." But now the
letter had come, and she acknowledged the truth of his saying that
written words were clearer in their expression than those simply
spoken. "Not that I could ever forget a syllable that he said." Yet,
as she held the letter in her hand she felt that it was a possession.
It was a thing at which she could look in coming years, when he and
she might be far apart,--a thing at which she could look with pride
in remembering that he had thought her worthy of it.

Neither on that day nor on the next did she think of her answer, nor
on the third or fourth day with any steady thinking. She knew that an
answer would have to be written, and she felt that the sooner it was
written the easier might be the writing; but she felt also that it
should not be written too quickly. A week should first elapse, she
thought, and therefore a week was allowed to elapse, and then the day
for writing her answer came. She had spoken no word about it either
to Mrs. Dale or to Lily. She had longed to do so, but had feared.
Even though she should speak to Lily she could not be led by Lily's
advice. Her letter, whatever it might be, must be her own letter. She
would admit of no dictation. She must say her own say, let her say it
ever so badly. As to the manner of saying it, Lily's aid would have
been invaluable; but she feared that she could not secure that aid
without compromising her own power of action,--her own individuality;
and therefore she said no word about the letter either to Lily or to
Lily's mother.

On a certain morning she fixed herself at her desk to write her
letter. She had known that the task would be difficult, but she had
little known how difficult it would be. On that day of her first
attempt she did not get it written at all. How was she to begin? He
had called her "Dearest Grace;" and this mode of beginning seemed as
easy as it was sweet. "It is very easy for a gentleman," she said to
herself, "because he may say just what he pleases." She wrote the
words, "Dearest Henry," on a scrap of paper, and immediately tore it
into fragments as tho